


BB

by Anonymous



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: (deadsam is mostly if you squint), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24072163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Should he remember the child? She looks up at him with a delighted face. He feels like maybe he should, but she doesn’t. Something about her is wrong. Something about the man, the one who looks a bit like Lisa, is wrong. Some piece doesn’t fit together, something missing, something he tries to put his finger on but can’t quite place. The pieces are there, but they refuse to snap together, all just out of reach.
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges & Clifford Unger, Sam Porter Bridges/Deadman
Comments: 2
Kudos: 70
Collections: Anonymous





	BB

**Author's Note:**

> tonight is "yeet my half-baked fic folder onto ao3" night
> 
> since this IS half-baked, it's largely unfinished, but it's doing a lot better on here then it is on my hard drive.

There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears, a sudden drop in pressure, and he falls to his knees.

He leans over and vomits up black tar; spitting into the sand, he wipes his mouth, moves unsteadily to his feet. It’s as if he hasn’t stood in years – his legs tremble, he sways, fighting to keep his balance.

. .

He finds a heavily corroded metal shipping container of some kind somewhere nearby; it’s easy enough to break it open. The contents seem relatively untouched; a bodysuit made out of a curious feeling raincoat-like-plastic material. He tugs it on; it’s not exactly the most comfortable thing against his bare skin, but at least he’s clothed. Feeling ever so slightly more human and put together, he walks onwards.

. .

“Unable to verify I.D. Please state your name.”

“Uh...Clifford Unger?”

“Thank you. Please stand by.”

There’s a long, awkward pause, and suddenly the door below slides open. Cliff stares at it, then heads down.

Behind the door is a long staircase; he can see a light on at the bottom, though, and he keeps walking.

He kind of wishes he had that gun on him. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this. Any of this.

“Hello?”

Something heavy collides with the back of his head, and he falls unconscious.

\-------------

“Well, what the fuck _else_ did you want me to do?”

“I don’t know! But I don’t think knocking him out was the best course of action!”

“Knock, knock!”

“ _No,_ Lou.” 

Cliff groans. The voices stop.

“Oh.”

He hears someone shuffling, leaning over him. He sticks up a hand and shoves them out of the way.

“’M fine.”

“I’ve seen Sam punch people twice your size unconscious with less of a punch. At least let me get you some ice.”

He opens his eyes and sees a man rounding the corner. There’s another person standing there, brown hair, yea high, arms folded and sitting on a soft in front of him.

“…”

It’s a distant memory. All of his memories are distant – they feel as if they occurred five thousand years ago, five minutes ago, five seconds ago. The man’s face pulls at something in his mind, makes his stomach twist. He opens his mouth to say something, and instead gets a hand almost shoved in.

“Lou – Lou, no, don’t stick your hands in his mouth, gross.”

The man’s severe expression is almost immediately gone as he reaches for him; Cliff starts as he notices the small baby sitting on the floor in front of him. They watch him with a curious, confused expression as the other man pulls him into his lap.

“Here you go,” a voice says; the other man returns. He hands Cliff some ice loosely wrapped in a towel, and he presses it to the back of his head. “I’m afraid Sam doesn’t have any idea how to greet houseguests.”

Sam snorts.

“’Houseguest’. I guess you could call him that.”

Sam.  _Sam._ The name sounds familiar. Terribly familiar. He feels the same sensation of overwhelming agony that he’d felt before, when he tried to think, tried to remember. He looks up at the man; his face looks so  _familiar,_ so…

“You look like my wife,” He says, curiously. The baby in the man’s arms gurgles at the sound of Cliff’s voice.

“Beeb! Beeeeb!”

The baby tries wriggling out of his arms to get back to the houseguest that got whacked in the head.

“What?”

“Interesting,” the other man says, all of them transfixed by the baby’s reaction to him. “Perhaps your memories were also shared with Lou; maybe she remembers him like you do.”

The man makes a face. “That’s...weird, but I guess.”

“Beeb beeb!”

Should he remember the child? She looks up at him with a delighted face. He feels like maybe he should, but she doesn’t. Something about her is wrong. Something about the man, the one who looks a bit like Lisa, is wrong. Some piece doesn’t fit together, something  _missing,_ something he tries to put his finger on but can’t quite place. The pieces are there, but they refuse to snap together, all just out of reach.

. . .

“He doesn’t remember anything.”

“It would appear not.”

“ _Christ._ ”

“What would you like to do, Sam?”

“I mean...shit, I can’t just...shit.”

“You have no obligations to keep him around, you know. You have your memories of him; you can keep onto those and let him go on his way.”

“How did he even get here? It’s not like when I came back and everything was fine again.”

Cliff walks around the room. It’s fairly empty; there’s a few pieces of furniture here and there, but there’s no signs of  _living._ Like someone took up shelter there haphazardly, temporarily, not expecting to stay for long but now trying to fill in the empty spaces. There’s a few smudges along the bottom of the wall, probably from the baby. They make him smile a bit.

“I’m not kicking him out, but...Deadman, what do I even tell him? How the hell do you begin with that?”

He walks into the other room; a small kitchen, barely able to be  _called_ a kitchen; a folding table and some chairs, a high chair, and a tiny microwave on a countertop next to a small dingy sink.

“Everything...all right?” He asks.

“Absolutely perfect,” Deadman says, acting like nothing happened. Sam huffs.

“Fine.”

…

Lou sits in his lap, playing with her pink plush animal, making noises that he  _thinks_ are supposed to be helicopter sounds. She smashes it into his leg and mimicks a  _boooom._

Sam is nodding off in the chair next to him; Deadman’s gone off. Apparently Sam isn’t quite as off the grid as he used to be, and Deadman can go to and from his small shelter.

_Not much, but I like it. It’s something I made on my own. A...a home. I guess._

Lou looks up at him and shakes the toy at him.

“Beebee.”

He takes it from her, and does the same mimicking little helicopter noise. He also nosedives it into his leg.

She giggles.

Eventually she gets tired, but instead of crawling over to her father like she usually tends to, she leans into him and babbles sleepily. A little uncertain, Cliff pats her on the head, hums a tune idly under his breath.

A memory.

Something forgotten.

Something he remembers?

He keeps humming. Lou’s breathing evens, and he can hear Sam snoring next to him.

_BB?_

_BB, can you hear me? It’s daddy._

He freezes. Lou whimpers at the loss of the singing.

_BB._

He keeps singing.

…

He sits there with his arms wrapped tight around Sam. He feels a little awkward under him, unsure of how to respond, but he awkwardly wraps his arms around in kind.

“Hi.”

After a beat of silence, Sam says, “Uh. Not sure if I’m fine with ‘Dad’.”

“Cliff is fine.”

“Okay. Uh...probably should get Lou to stop calling you BB.”

Cliff laughs; it sounds more like a cough through his snotty nose.

“Yes. Probably.”

“All right then, grandpa.”

Cliff’s stomach twists, again, this time in a better way. He feels tears coming again, but he smacks Sam on the shoulder.

“Stop calling me old. We’re probably the same age at this point.”

“If that makes you feel better, Gramps, sure.”

\----------------

“So...we’re not going to tell Die-Hardman about this?”

“Yes? No. Maybe. I have no idea.”

“You don’t have to talk to him. Not until you feel like you’re ready to. We can just register you under some other name.”

“He’s gonna find out who the extra person here is eventually.”

“Well...yes and no. There isn’t exactly a _log_ of everyone living in cities – it’s just easier to figure exactly how many people are in bunkers since they’re smaller.”

“I’ll just stay off the occupancy then. For now.”

“All right.”

“Gamma!”

“Grand- _pa._ ”

“Gramma!”

“How old is she now?” Cliff asks as Lou crawls up to sit on Sam’s lap. He notices she likes being close to people’s chest – maybe it’s where she feels most comfortable after the BB pod.

“18 months? Maybe? BB’s are premature, and we still can’t figure out why her records were wiped, so it’s hard to say.”

“She seems to be picking up things well.”

“She probably learned a whole bunch already just from being in the pod. ‘Not aware of the outside world’ my ass.”

“You used to tap on the glass at me. Sometimes.”

Sam falls silent.

“Look,” he says after a minute, “I’m sorry. I don’t...I mean, I can try, but shit. This is the longest I’ve spoken to you when you _weren’t_ trying to blast my face off and kidnap my kid.”

“It’s fine. We’ll get to it. Or we won’t. Either way, everything’s fine.”

Sam smiles, and god, he’ll never be over how much he looks like Lisa when he does that. It makes him wistful for something that never was, something that he’d lost and mourned long ago, but maybe this new thing could be better.


End file.
